


Breathe

by Marium



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crush, F/M, Gen, M/M, Siddiq-centric, post all-out-war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marium/pseuds/Marium
Summary: Siddiq knows he has been offered a place in Alexandria. It's waiting for him; now he needs to find it for himself.





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> So I've taken quite a liking to Siddiq. I have a small handful of headcanons about him following his introduction to Alexandria, so I threw them here with the addition of some hints of a rareship I've made all on my own. Idk who's gonna read this, but if you are, thanks and hope you enjoy!

Hard as they might be, the facts are the facts: Siddiq doesn’t fit in.

He guessed, and he was right, that he was going to have some problems adjusting to life in a community, surrounded by people, and he would need time to properly settle in in Alexandria. He also thought that by the time two months and a half rolled by, he would be a part of the community. It turns out that he wasn’t quite so right about that part.

In defense of the Alexandrians, he can say that he feels welcome. That much, he can have peace of mind about. He’s met his fair share of mistrust - that was to be expected. He’s met some rude comments - that he wasn’t expecting, but given the circumstances of a recently finished war with its natural consequences on people’s lives, he came to the conclusion it wasn’t surprising. Still, he’s met far more people who welcomed him than not, who have been quick to defend him against people taking their issues out on him. He’s met apologies, too, which he happily accepted, and he’s met people who are ready to help him settle in, the moment he is ready himself. There are good people in Alexandria, much better than the people who once led him to decide to isolate himself from human interaction. Other than a couple minor incidents that first couple weeks after the war, he’s had no problem. No, the people aren’t the reason he still feels like an outsider.

In his own defense, he can it’s despite his best efforts that that’s the case. … Alright, so maybe that’s not completely, absolutely true. Siddiq knows he’s made an effort, but he also knows that it might not be the best of his efforts. He’s tried being friendly, and when he has to check on someone, he makes a point to be gentle and careful and make them feel safe, yet he still is left with the sensation that it’s all half-hearted at most. Objectively and technically speaking, he is aware there is more he could have done - there is always something more to be done. He’s not completely sure what, but he knows there is. He also knows that he’s pushed himself, and if he hasn’t reached that best, is because he couldn’t make himself reach it, aware as he is that it’s there. He tries to take comfort in that, and tell himself that in a sense, he  _ has _ done his best.

The Alexandrians are ready to welcome him into their community. He’s ready to be welcomed. And still, he doesn’t fit in.

Siddiq is aware that he has gotten, to speak plainly, sort of weird. He was always on the quiet side, far from being the most charismatic or the best at making friends, but he made do just fine. Now, however, he can feel his social skills covered in a layer of rust so deep and so firmly settled that the time he’s spent in the community has barely managed to shake it at all. It frustrates him, and he hates it, and as much as he shakes, it won’t come off. Maybe that’s what makes him avoid conversation, which in turn makes his gentleness appreciated but socially useless. It’s the reason he’s still getting used back to some social norms, why some of his reactions are quirky and slow. It’s what makes him avoid people’s eyes, what keeps him from sharing information about himself beyond the very basics, and it’s what stops him from taking the offers he’s gotten to hang out with others, in fear he’ll just mess up.

What can he say? Isolation will have that effect. It was, after all, more than two years that he spent absolutely on his own before he ran into Carl. When he first laid eyes on him, Siddiq wasn’t even sure if the exercises he’d done to keep his voice working would have been any good at all. Luckily for him, Carl understood him just fine, despite being the first person Siddiq talked to other than himself in so long - and really, isn’t talking to oneself a sign of madness?

Oh, Carl. Carl is definitely a factor too.

Thinking of him always has this effect on Siddiq, make him feel like he’s been speared with this feeling - not guilt, not exactly, but very, very close. Enough to feel ashamed.

He’s been told more than once that Carl’s death - the death of a teen just on the brink of becoming a man, the death of someone that had so much to grow, so much to offer to the world - isn’t on him. Michonne has told him more than once what Carl told to her and Rick - that Siddiq didn’t ask or force him to go to those walkers, that he made his own choice, and Siddiq’s conscience is strict enough for him to take those words like balm and cling to them as protection against the asphyxiating waves of guilt he felt when he first saw that the boy - a kid, really - was bitten.

Siddiq doesn’t have a martyr complex, he’s not that self-focused. If the people of Alexandria say they don’t blame him for the death of one of their youngest, then he will believe what they tell him, and he won’t put on top of himself the blame not given to him by those with far more right to feel broken about the tragedy. But not blaming him doesn’t mean that they don’t associate him with it. He’s heard the name of Carl dying on someone’s lip the moment he approaches a couple times, just enough for him to know.

Not taking the public blame doesn’t mean he’s immune to the nausea-inducing attack of guilt, every now and then. And he knows that, as long as Alexandria doesn’t move on from Carl, he’s going to have a mark on him. Not a mark of hate or isolation, but a mark all the same.

From what he’s heard, from what he’s seen, it’s still a long way from these people moving on. Carl deserves that. It’s alright. Siddiq accepts and respects it, and he knows that’s the way it should be.

And he can make do meanwhile. He’s used to being on his own, after all.

-0-o-0-o-0-

If Siddiq had to choose one thing to swear on about his new life here and how things work in Alexandria, it would be that Rick Grimes deserves every single inch of the unwavering respect and trust he gets.

Maybe Siddiq didn’t have such a clear impression of that at his first few interactions with the man. He thinks he has a good enough excuse to have needed a while to make up his mind about the man; being scared off with a gun doesn’t make such an outstanding first impression, nor does having barely restrained hostile and sullen words spitten at him, for a second one. Not that Siddiq holds it against him, not then and definitely not now. He’d have thought there was something really wrong with Rick, if it wasn’t the case, but it was still not such a good moment to examine and make his mind about the man, when he was in the immediate aftermath of such a tragedy, when every word Siddiq directed at him was met with a glare, silence, or Rick leaving.

And things continuing being like that for a long while, maybe forever, would have been nothing short of natural. That’s what first made Siddiq’s lips twitch in a perplexed, yet warm smile when finding out what kind of person Rick was; when it took so little time for Rick to drop the hostility and the distance he refused to let go. The moment he accepted Siddiq’s apology, made an apologetic comment about his own gruff demeanor and gave him a smile - the kind that made wrinkles appear around his eyes - he lifted a weight Siddiq hadn’t been quite aware he was holding. He’s slept better since then. He’s looked at Rick with brighter eyes, too.

It takes a remarkable sort of man, to be able to tell apart what went through his mind in the middle of his grief, especially when no one’s expecting him to.

Not to mention, Rick does actually care. That’s another thing Siddiq wouldn’t have dared to expect.

Siddiq is on his knees in front of where Rick is sitting, deft fingers carefully holding the warm skin as his eyes take in and analyze what he sees. He makes a low hum, and Rick arches his eyebrow slightly, easy smile on his lips.

“It’s not a problem, really. You should be paying attention to someone who needs it more.”

“It’s not that there’s no one who needs it more, Rick, it’s that you’re the only one who has come in today. Now, will you stop acting like this is wasted time and let me check?”

Before Rick can make any sound of protest, Siddiq’s thumb and index finger dig just slightly into the man’s knee. He traces a hint of a self-satisfied smile when Rick goes stiff and he hears the faintest hint of a gasp coming from above. He raises his eyebrow up at him, something playful and relaxed that rarely comes up in him anymore to swipe away the awkward stiffness.

“Looks like you took some damage, Rick.”

“Well, yeah, I’m not denying that. All I’m saying is, I tripped and fell a bit too hard when fighting a walker, is all. It’s not serious.”

“You’re right, it’s not” Siddiq agrees easily, already reaching out his arm to search into a drawer of his desk. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look into it. I think it would all be best if we doctors were here only for this kind of thing, right?”

There is a kind of shine on Rick’s eyes as he hums, nods, and lets his shoulders fall a bit. He smiles. “That would be nice, yes.”

Siddiq pushes the cloth of Rick’s pants further up his thigh, and then he starts unwrapping the bandage. He starts wrapping it again, this time around Rick’s leg, slow but steady, and careful not to put more pressure than is necessary. As his fingers work, his palms come into contact with the warm, sort of rough skin of Rick’s leg, that has some faded scars here and there, and covered in a light dusting of hair that’s just enough to make Siddiq feel a pleasant tickling every time his hands smooth over an inch. His breath doesn’t change, his eyes don’t move from the white cloth, and he doesn’t make any sort of comment about it.

He wonders absently, on the back of his mind, how his hands feel on Rick’s skin. Whether they’re soft or rough or too hot or pleasant. He makes no comment about that either.

“How are you doing, Siddiq?” He looks up at Rick, blinking a couple times, and Rick tilts his head. “About settling in” he clarifies. “I know it can take a while, getting used to a place like this. It took me some time, too. Do you like your place? Too much space, too little? Are you getting along with everyone? That sort of thing. You can allow yourself to worry about that now.”

A grateful smile colors Siddiq’s features. That’s what he means when he says Rick cares. This is far from being the first time Rick asks about that, and he knows it’s not going to be the last, either. And while it could be just leader routine, there’s some softness in his voice and eyes whenever he asks that lets Siddiq know that Rick is genuinely interested in his wellbeing. He isn’t sure whether it is in any sense more interest than he knows Rick shows for everyone under his charge, but he appreciates it with everything he’s got either way.

He answers by means of a nod and a hum. Then he puts his focus back on the task at hand: He finishes the bandaging, checks it to make sure it’s not gonna fall down, and stands up. “This should stop you from bending your knee” he says as he does so. “Take it easy for a couple days, let it rest. If you don’t move it or put any weight on it, it will be all good in a couple days.”

Siddiq disappears out of the main room and immediately comes back with a crutch. Rick shows a bit of uncertainty when offered it, but when he stands up and moves around, it only takes him a few minutes to find his balance. Siddiq does call him out a couple times when he stands on his injured leg, but Rick gets control of the automatic movement just as fast.

“Can I go check on the crops, or do I have to stay home?” Rick asks when he’s finally sure of his ability not to fall on his face. He takes note of the light twisting of Siddiq’s lips and adds, “it’ll be fast, ten minutes at most.” Siddiq still doesn’t give any verbal answer, and Rick tries again. “I’ll do what you say. Speak your mind, Siddiq.”

The smile is back on Siddiq’s lips, although it’s fleeting and hesitant. He takes a moment to consider, and then mentally shrugs.

“I’m afraid I’m not too good at that, Rick. But I guess I can try.”

He adds an awkward smile to convey his intention. He hopes it does, at least. Is joking about his lack of interpersonal skills a good way to start a friendly chat and get over said lack of interpersonal skills? He hopes it is.

Rick’s eyes gleam and his lips spread into a smile, so he supposes it’s not such a bad start. “If it helps you feel better, I know what you mean. Never have been any good at communication, myself. I’m sure we can help each other out on that.”

His own skills must be real, real rusty, then, Siddiq hums, if the man who always carries the heavy of their conversations is a bad conversationalist himself. He shakes the thought away. He’s trying, so there’s no point in getting worked up over that.

“I hope that’s the case. But maybe some other time would be better. You do have to check on those crops, right?”

“I can go, then?”

“You  _ are _ going to do it no matter what my advice is, I think.”

Rick looks sort of sheepish, and his crutch-free hand rubs a bit at his neck as he smiles a self-aware smile and blushes slightly. “I will listen to what you say, Siddiq. I can spend all or only half the day moving around depending on what you say. I have a lot of things to keep an eye on.”

And Siddiq knows Rick is the kind of man who carries out his duty no matter what.

In the end, Rick agrees to be back at his place within an hour and spend as much time as he can resting until he’s told he can go back to activity. Immediately after, he’s out the door, heading to the crops plot right on front of the clinic. Siddiq has some new medicines to go through and sort, and he has to write down recipes before the scouting group goes out tomorrow so they can start making their own, but he’s got a good handful of hours before that and it’s not that much work. He goes to the open window and looks out, letting fresh air and the smell of worked earth hit his face.

There Rick is, just arriving and already deep in conversation with the people working there. From his position, Siddiq can make out a faint part of the conversation, something about seeds and crop rotation. He can make out much more clearly the relaxed but dedicated look in Rick’s face, and the confidence the workers put on him, crystal clear in their eyes.

Rick is a good leader, Siddiq thinks. Siddiq knows. Looking around at how the people in Alexandria interact with him, there’s absolutely no room to doubt that. People have complete, unwavering trust that Rick knows what he’s doing and that he’s working for them. He knows part of it is the after-effect glory of having led and won a war against a tyrant, and he also knows that he’s not completely unaffected by that himself. But it’s not the war glory that makes Siddiq look up to Rick. He admires the way he hasn’t let any of the admiration go up to his head, he admires the way he’s firm and unwavering but ever so kind, he admires his resolution and confidence, he admires the way that in the time he’s been there, Siddiq has seen no reason to doubt that Rick genuinely wants nothing but the best for the people under him. He’s not in the position he is only because he’s fought for it; he’s there because Alexandria has seen Rick deserves to be there.

Siddiq looks some more. Even the man’s appearance reflects it. Siddiq takes in the work-worn and dirty shirt, short sleeved and first button open to reveal strong arms and defined muscles. He sees the aged jeans and boots, that Rick could easily replace with better ones. He sees the man’s hair, short and prickly after shedding his curls, that makes Siddiq think of how, when he’d just had a haircut, he used to enjoy running his hands through his own hair. He takes note of the resoluteness with which Rick carries himself in all of his actions, exuding the strength that resides inside him.

For a good handful of moments, Siddiq takes all of that in, barely allowing any other thought to cross his mind. He knows he’s staring - that’s something he does a lot, he knows. Staring at something or someone when he’s thinking, not quite remembering that rational, alive individuals don’t quite enjoy that, so unlike the trees and walkers he’s gotten used to. He doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable again, least of all Rick, so he takes one last look, and then goes inside.

He needs to get to work. If Rick gives his all, then the people under him should too.

-0-o-0-o-0-

Siddiq thought that by now, he’d be used enough to this. Then again, the fact that he is usually not alone when the time comes probably helps a lot. It is usually Rick who accompanies him down here, and his presence radiates a warmth that puts Siddiq at ease.

But Rick is not here today. The moment he was told his leg was good enough to carry him around, he jumped out of his home and went out the walls. He was supposed to be here by noon, but something must be keeping him at Hilltop a few hours longer than expected, and no one else willing to go along is available either.

Siddiq isn’t trembling, as shown by the almost-perfect balance of the tray of food he’s carrying due to Rick not being here to do it himself as he usually does, and if that balance is lacking somewhere, it’s exclusively due to the steps. Nor is his breath sharp or being held inside; it’s soft and even, proof that he’s done this enough times to not think anything of the act itself. And yet, even though that he consciously tries to ease it down, the line of his shoulders is much more straight than it naturally is, consequence of the tension gathering on his muscles.

Siddiq reaches the bottom of the steps. He hears a low, curious hum, and he keeps his eyes down when the clink of the keys he’s taking out of his belt covers it. He opens the door, comes inside, and carefully sets the tray down.

“What’s up, doc? You coming alone today? Where’s our mighty, fearless leader?”

Siddiq’s lids close over his eyes and remain that way for one, two, three seconds before he has to look at the man he’s come down to see. When he finally does, what he sees is Negan, lying on his back on his mattress, arms crossed under his head in a way that marks whatever muscles confinement allow him to keep and makes his white tee roll up to expose a thin line of not-so-tan-anymore skin between it and his jeans. Crossed legs, bare feet, and cockily friendly smile complete a picture far too perfectly, casually relaxed - and probably intended to be alluring - to not have been rehearsed.

Siddiq doesn’t dignify the man with a reply. In response, the man coos an offended complaint and sits up in a single movement, long legs now hanging off the edge to meet the floor and arms stretched back.

“What is it? Too shy to speak? My, don’t tell me you just wanted some alone time with the local psycho! Siddiq, Siddiq, my only true friend, you should have just said so! You know I’m always happy to make time in my schedule for such a cute face.”

Once again, Siddiq doesn’t react to the man’s words, other than an inner shiver all over the underside of his skin in response to the dragged drawl Negan imbues his words with. Even though he is fairly sure Negan can’t sense it, he still feels exposed and vulnerable. Nonetheless, he shakes his head faint enough for Negan not to be able to notice it, and taking a deep breath - through his nose, slow and silent, so no one but himself will know - he approaches.

Negan’s smile turns into a smirk, showing some teeth that, try as he might, don’t have the same bite they used to. He doesn't say anything when he stands up, and when he closes his eyes, his expression takes on a soothingly serene note that comes very close to making Siddiq feel relaxed in his presence. Negan waits to feel the touch of Siddiq’s fingers to tilt his head up, delaying it just enough to make Siddiq have to apply the faintest pressure even though Negan knows the routine by heart by now. There, on his now pale skin, lies the angry red line of a healing scar, smoothly traced from one side of his throat to the other.

Siddiq holds his breath, nearly afraid to move an inch more than necessary. As he inspects the wound, his fingers feel the warmth underneath rough skin and the smoothness of new tissue, and as he moves them, his knuckles brush over short sandpaper-like stubble. Something electric tickles over the marrow of his bones and the nerves of his teeth, born from so needed human touch, intensified by the contrast of whom it comes from, under what circumstances.

At the beginning, Negan was at Siddiq’s clinic at all times, and even when he first was brought down, he had to come check on him various times a day. Now, however, Siddiq’s just coming down once a week, and so far he’s had nothing to do except check that yes, the wound is healing alright and isn’t tearing or getting infected. Soon, all that will remain will be a faint pale mark, and Siddiq won’t have to see this man anymore.

“It looks like it’s healing. Nothing to worry about” Siddiq finally speaks, his voice probably carrying some anxiety because he immediately sees the corner of Negan’s lips twitch upwards, although nothing else in the man’s face changes.

However, the moment he steps away and Negan’s eyes half-open to look at him, the smile grows and grows until it’s a Cheshire cat’s, so wide and so white. Or, if he’s not feeling poetic, he could also put it as smiling like an absolute loon.

“What is it, doc? So eager to go away for good?”

He knows he shouldn’t be intimidated. He doesn’t understand why he is intimidated. After all, he’s never lived under Negan’s rule and hasn’t had to face the consequences of his system as anything other than what’s been told to him. He arrived in the middle of the war, and although he’s seen the killing and was under the ground being bombed, violence and death are nothing anyone still living is foreign to. Negan is far from being the first man Siddiq’s seen responsible for an armed conflict.

Even knowing what the man is capable of, he’s not sure what in his words creeps along his skin like a rattlesnake. He’s caged and can do nothing anymore, but there’s still something in the perfect relaxation of his voice that is simultaneously genuinely friendly and crystal-clear deceiving, that glint under his gaze that is sometimes far too warm and close, and others chillingly calculating. He’s a man with a timer on, and Siddiq knows neither the time left or what will happen when it reaches zero.

Negan might be a caged tiger, but Siddiq is the only one within his hunting area.

“You know, Siddiq, you made sure I didn’t die and you’re the only one coming visit me for something other than mocking me” Negan starts, and although he is free to go now, something in the way the man forms words compels Siddiq to stay and hear him finish. “You’re good, Siddiq. You’re taking care of me like no one’s bothered to in more than I care to think about. Now, I know you’re doing it because you have to, but still. At least you don’t insult me and you don’t hate my guts. It’s something a man comes to appreciate. Having such a cutie as my personal nurse to take care of me.”

Negan comes a step closer, enough to make the words ‘personal space’ shoot up in Siddiq’s mind. Negan’s hands move as if he wants to touch him, but don’t get even close. “I’m really, sincerely grateful for you and the chance to have you around. I don’t want you to stop coming, but I know you will. So at least, allow me to thank you before that happens.”

Usually Siddiq doesn’t know whether Negan is sincere or joking. There’s probably no difference at all with him. Right now, however, there is a neediness in Negan’s gaze that Siddiq knows well enough to have no doubt classifying it as loneliness, but moments before sympathy could actually settle within him, it’s swept away by the cockiness of Negan’s returning grin.

“Why don’t you get on all fours and let me show you just how grateful I am? I’ve been told I have wicked skilled fingers.” Negan moves them, and it’s not clear whether he’s wriggling them to show them off, or beckoning him closer. “My tongue, too.”

Siddiq can feel the perplexity and shame on his face. Before he can have time to form a properly furious response, something much more effective happens.

“Negan, back off right now. Siddiq, come here.”

Siddiq feels an immense wave of relief when he looks back and sees Rick, scowling and glaring, coming down the steps. He wastes no time seeking the protection of someone much more in charge than he is, and he sighs the tension out the moment Rick’s reassuring hand lands on his shoulder, if even for just a moment.

And just like that, whatever interest Negan might have had in Siddiq comes to a second plane. Siddiq feels like he’s not even there, like he’s watching a movie in which Negan’s knife-sharp words and Rick’s furious staring are the main characters.

Negan doesn’t look the least bit disappointed or pissed; in fact, he’s positively gleeful, even when his words are of complaint. “Rick, come the fuck on! Something beautiful was about to happen here.”

“You overestimate how much I value your throat, Negan. I’m not asking Siddiq to check on you again. You better pray it goes on healing as it has, because if there’s a problem I’ll consider letting you die.”

Negan rolls his eyes and waves his hand. “All mighty, all righteous, all fuck, all blah blah blah. I’m an expert in bullshit, Grimes, I can tell when it’s in front of me. And hell, you most certainly can’t blame me for this! A man’s got his needs, and you’re parading a cute twink like that around me? What am I supposed to do? Rosie Palms lost my interest a while ago.”

Whenever Rick and Negan have been on the same place, there’s  _ something _ between the two of them that just commands attention, an energy that leaves Siddiq feeling like he’s under some sort of weight. Right now, Siddiq knows himself to be an excuse and nothing more, something for the tension between Rick and Negan to explode over.

Rick keeps glaring, Negan keeps smirking, and a spark is all that would be needed for the air between them to catch fire. When Rick huffs and turns around, Negan’s expression immediately falls, but Siddiq’s attention is quickly drawn back to Rick when the man pats his shoulder and smiles reassuringly at him. Right now, even with Negan in the room, Siddiq feels as safe as he’ll ever be.

“Come on, Siddiq, let’s go. Nothing else to do here.”

“Don’t be such an ass, Rick!” Siddiq almost stops to face Negan again, but the gentle pressure on his shoulder urging him forwards reminds him of why that’s not a good idea. “Like damn, of fucking course you’re tapping that cute ass, but do you gotta put up that protective alpha male possessiveness act in front of a starving man? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but the least you could do is make out in front of me. You know, give my mind something to work with in my moments of loneliness. C’mon, Rick! Don’t act like you don’t love the attention! You take the glory and praise just fine!"

By the time the door’s slam shut behind them, Negan’s voice is just a feeble sound dying under a loud mechanic clank. Siddiq’s unable to look up, feeling his cheeks burn up, and he makes a nearly choking noise in the back of his throat when Rick’s rough and kind fingers tilt his head so he meets careful eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Siddiq nods.

“He just wants to get under your skin. He wants to use you to get under mine. It’s what he does.”

“I know.”

“It’s just words. He cannot do anything to you. I promise.”

The smile dawning on his face is genuine now. He nods and kindly shakes Rick’s hand off.

“I know. I know I’m safe if you’re around.”

Rick’s eyes widen for a fraction of second, and there is the slight hint of a flattered flush under his beard when he smiles.

-0-o-0-o-0-

If there is someone he feels completely, absolutely comfortable around, then Siddiq has no doubt when saying that that’s Anne. Which is kind of ironic, when taking into account that everyone else has at the very least a slight layer on tension around here.

She is, after all, sort of weird. Siddiq himself found himself awkwardly fidgeting where he stood the first few times he interacted with her, and even now, used as he is to her quirks and is even fond of them, he’s slightly perplexed at her, every now and then. Sometimes, when Siddiq says her name, she doesn’t react at all, just keeps doing her thing until he tries a couple more times, like she doesn’t quite associate her own name with herself. The way she speaks, with a slight tendency to drop words and answer in short, clipped sentences, didn’t stand out too much at first, but now that he’s caught on on what exactly about it sounds mechanically off, he can’t stop noticing. Siddiq wonders whether she’s foreign, but she shows no accent, and even if she was, her control of English seems solid enough. Sometimes, when he talks to Anne, she feels sort of absent, and he can’t help feeling like she is only halfway talking to him, and her other half is having another conversation that just so happens to require the same answers at the same time. Siddiq can’t quite tell if her quirkiness peaks when she’s relaxed or when she’s actively focusing on being that way.

But it’s not like he doesn’t have to keep himself on check so he won't ask questions out loud and answer himself, just like he did when his own voice was the only human one he could hear. He still catches himself wondering how to set traps around himself, in the safety of his own room, so anything or anyone coming close will stumble into it and the noise will wake him up, although it’s been a month and a half since the last time he actually did that, when he was the one to fall into it in the morning, last time he did. He stares too much too often, his words have a hint of low-quality poetic value to them consequence of that time he decided to spend his walks by composing poetry, and he still recites under his breath what he remembers from college classes, which has been calming him down ever since he found himself on his own. Fixed patterns will do that for him.

Anne is puzzling, and she’s weird. But Siddiq has a few oddities of his own, so he’s got no room to judge. She’s weirdly friendy, on her own way, and they’ve reached the silent agreement not to bring up and not mind any of it, until they’ve managed to leave it behind. It works fine for the two of them.

Perhaps even more important than all of that, though, is that she’s a newcomer, just like him. She came into Alexandria even later than he did, and even though he has the impression she was acquaintanced with them beforehand, he takes comfort in not feeling like the most clueless one, for once. Anne doesn’t look like she minds at all being clueless, too, so that’s good for both. And with the fact of not having been here before, comes the fact that she doesn’t hold any impression towards him, not the way the others do. For Anne, Siddiq is a blank canvas.

So that’s what he does on his free time. Paint on canvas. Or watch Anne do so. Or watch her do anything else falling under ‘artistic’. Or try it himself and genuinely laugh when he completely fails. It’s a good enough hobby she has, so Siddiq didn’t complain when she dragged him into it.

Today is a watching day. He’s a better observer than doer, anyway. Siddiq sits on the grass, back on a tree and a small but happy smile on his lips as he silently watches her working.

“They found some actual art supplies two weeks ago. You’re aware, right?” he hums twenty minutes into a companionable silence only broken by the metallic clank of her crafting and the faraway voices from the more busy part of the community.

“These are art supplies” Anne answers, not turning her eyes away. “All materials are supplies. You’d know if you tried.”

It’s easy, amiable and heatless, and then she’s done speaking. Siddiq hums. He guesses it is truth, and it is most definitely convenient. He’d classify it as trash more than anything else, but she likes working on it, so part Alexandria’s waste is going to something better than a dump. She cares more about making it than keeping it, so he’s already seen a handful of her creations decorating this or that porch or placed somewhere on the streets. Siddiq has never considered himself a fan of those hipster-y things, but he’s got to admit that he’s come to be quite fond of these, and he feels some sort of second-hand pride on his friend when he sees that he’s not the only one.

Siddiq’s eyes watch every movement of Anne’s swift fingers as she works on a cat made out entirely of can tabs - eight of which she got from making him drink down a lemonade per minute. He rolls his tongue after some of the aftertaste still in his mouth before speaking.

“Is this one for Michonne too?”

She nods, but yet again her eyes don’t move away, nor do her hands stop working. “They must go to someone. I like making them, she likes having them.” Siddiq’s interest is picked up to a higher level when she briefly stops and looks over at him. “You like it?”

Siddiq flicks his tongue as he takes in the way the sun shines off on every single one of the pieces of metal on the figure, pretending he hasn’t been taking in every single new detail that’s come along since the beginning. “It’s a pity I’m not a fan of cats. I would ask you if I can keep this one.”

And that’s when it happens. One of the moments when the strange, absent and impersonal look on Anne’s face fades away and lets him see a pleased smile underneath along with a hum, staying there barely long enough for him to properly record it, so he can remind himself that, unreadable as she may be, Anne wouldn’t have him around if she didn’t appreciate their time together, too. She shrugs and turns back to work.

“I am a cat person. Will do a dog next time, though.”

It takes a little while for the pleased grin to come down from his face. It feels good, being able to casually interact with someone without remembering all the reasons why he can’t be so casual at all.

“Are you having me deliver the cat?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’ve done it before. You can.”

“So can you.”

“It’s better if you do it. Thank you.”

Siddiq catches himself on the verge of bringing up that her attempts to be grateful for her allowance into Alexandria can only do so much before she does it face to face. He’s been witness to that awkward tension that hangs between Anne and some of the Alexandrians, specially Rick and Michonne, and that has nothing to do with her oddities. This is her fifth cat for Michonne, and the fifth one she has Siddiq deliver for her; her attempts to dissipate the tension without facing it are crystal clear.

He also has to stop himself from bringing up that he’s fairly certain of her progress. By the fourth cat, Michonne seemed fondly amused and grateful, and nothing else. But the both of them, Siddiq and Anne, are here to stop thinking about how they don’t fit in. If Anne doesn’t want to hear that the only thing keeping her from peace of mind is the willingness to take it, then he’s not going to say it. She’s doing the same favor for him, he’s sure.

After all, this is the most stable he’s had in so long. The idea of changing any of it, for better as it may be, scares the hell out of him.

So when the cat is done, Siddiq takes it without complaint and makes his way through the community, petting a metallic head as he wonders if some day he could have a pet again.

Michonne smiles when she opens the door and sees him, and that’s before she even sets her eyes on her new cat. She lets out a happy yelp, clasping her hands together, and her smile positively glows when she takes it from his hands and inspects it. The next moment, she’s directing her good mood fully on him and getting him inside. Siddiq is powerless to resist.

The Michonne he’s known is friendly, warm, gentle, and wise. He was surprised when he first heard that she has a reputation to be even more fierce than Rick. He thinks of Rick, covered in blood as he walks back into the Hilltop after a so-called patrol, and he shudders. But then he looks at Michonne, kind and welcoming, carrying an intensity he can’t quite name even as she puts the fifth cat in a row of alternative art sculptures, and he has no problem believing that her fire matches Rick’s, at the very least.

He’s on her good side, he’s aware. She’s shown nothing but good will towards him, even in those first few days when he’d just come in and a war was still going on and she was touched by grief.

Siddiq feels himself fidget and casts his eyes down. She was a mother to Carl, and Carl died helping him. He’s sensitive enough to not have brought it up, but if he were to ask, he knows she’d talk about how he’s not just himself to her. Helping him is one of the last choices her son ever made, and Michonne will honor that. She’s given him no reason to doubt that she’s genuinely fond of him, so he sees no reason to feel self-conscious about all of this being any sense of obligation, but he’s all the same aware it is, to some degree.

If sitting down to have some coffee -  _ ‘our tea is over, but I think Maggie is starting to grow some new one’ _ \- gives her peace of mind, then Siddiq won’t hesitate to do so and enjoy her company. If it helps him too, that’s secondary.

“You actually managed to get Rick to rest his leg.” she comments after a sip, somewhere between delighted and teasing. “I should have tried doctor’s orders a lot sooner. That man’s never willing to let himself take a break.”

Siddiq hums behind a smile. “I’m more than happy to help. If I can ever help you with something, all you need to do is call. Gotta earn my keep, right?”

-0-o-0-o-0-

And then there’s the times when Alexandria just feels too busy, too loud, too like everything he’s no longer used for, and he just need absolute quiet.

He should be used back to it by now. He’s getting there, he knows he is, because every day breathing is that little bit easier. Not the best effort he could have made, but an effort all the same. He’s getting there, he is. He can feel it will be alright soon. It will.

And until then, the sewers are quiet and lonely enough to make do.

The moment his feet touch the floor, he makes his way with the ease and certainty of someone who has walked it more times than he’d care to admit. It’s only a few turns until he makes it to a surprisingly clean and clear area, a particularly well illuminated one, with some hole somewhere that lets enough daylight come in.

It’s where Carl kept Siddiq when he first came into Alexandria. It’s where Rick and Michonne learned that their son was going to die.

Siddiq ignores the would-be-bed that Carl had managed to get him, that’s stayed there ever since, and instead heads for the wall. He slides down, settles cross-legged on the floor with his hands resting on his knees, and his eyes come shut. From here, that faintest echo that reaches him from the surface above, that he can hear only if he consciously focuses on it, feels comforting rather than suffocating. His chest fills with air, slow and deep, and it comes down the same way.

He loses his notion of time, thinking only of the air coming in, the air going out. There is a leak somewhere, and the slow steady drip drip drip of it helps him on that. Three drips, take air, three drips, release it. It’s easy to get a hold of.

He doesn’t notice them at first, first too faint, and then easily mixing in with the dripping water. But then he clearly makes out the sound of steps, which come to a stop.

Siddiq’s eyes startle open. There, just within sight, is Rick. Siddiq’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds, feeling embarrassment and shame color his cheeks, no matter how much he knows that there’s nothing technically wrong with what he’s doing. He start stuttering, but Rick quickly makes it go down as easy as offering a casual wave and walking up to him.

Siddiq can feel his cheeks burn even brighter when Rick sits down, cross-legged like him, and offers him a look, eyebrow arched and eyes squinted in an expression that would feel definitely judging in anyone else but that Rick manages to make simply and plainly quizzical. Regardless, they settle in a silence that drags along for a good handful of minutes before Rick decides to break it.

“So,” he starts, shifting awkwardly but never taking his eyes off him, “is it because you don’t feel comfortable up there, or do you simply like it here?”

“I do feel comfortable” Siddiq answers, brushing his knuckles on his cheek, eyes halfway between Rick’s lap and the floor. “I also do like it here. This place helps me clear my head.”

“Siddiq. I know you’ve come here at least a couple times” Rick insists, not unkindly. Siddiq still doesn’t meet his eyes. “If you have a problem, it’s better for both of us if you say it. Are you still unable to settle down? It’s alright if you are. When I first came here it took me a while to get used to it and the people, and I wasn’t alone out there like you were. I know people can be a handful to get used to.”

“The people are not a problem. All of you have made me feel very welcome, and I am grateful for that.”

He doesn’t need to look up to know that Rick’s eyes are on him. He feels them like a physical weight pressing him down.

“Siddiq. I’ve noticed that you’re always tense when I see you. Is it that way with everyone, or is it just around me?”

Siddiq’s immediate reaction is to shake his head no, and so he does. However, something tells him to dare a quick look at Rick, and when he does and their eyes meet, he feels his will to hide anything from the man simmer down to nothing. He’s quick to look away, but the sensation remains strong and pulsing within his chest. He pulls at his lower lip between his teeth, and lets out a weary sigh. He makes a vague motion to everywhere around them.

“I am sorry, Rick. About Carl. I am so sorry” he says, and simultaneously he feels the anxiousness of finally bringing it up and the relief of having gotten it off his chest.

Rick takes a few moments to reply. When he does, his voice is carefully unreadable. “You think you’re to blame for Carl’s death?”

Siddiq chooses to ignore the wince his body feels compelled to. He raises his hand for another vague gesture. “I sort of do, I sort of don’t. It’s confusing. I wouldn’t say I blame myself, per se, because I know I never wanted anything bad to happen to him, and I never thought it would until it had already happened. But I can’t say my conscience is clean either. And if you blamed me, I wouldn’t be surprised, and I wouldn’t hold it against you. Carl wouldn’t have died if it wasn’t because I-”

“Stop” Rick commands, almost snaps. It’s cutting, the closest to angry he’s heard Rick’s voice in a long time. When he looks up, he’s left speechless by the borderline angry expression in his eyes, clouded by a shine that isn’t that far away from tears.

Rick’s asked him to stop, and so Siddiq doesn’t even consider to continue.

“I wasn’t there and I can never know how it went down, but I’ve heard your version and I heard Carl’s. What Carl did was because he wanted to. He died because of his own choice, because he chose to be good, to be better than everyone around him taught him to. He didn’t die anyone’s victim. His death was a consequence of his own willing actions. That’s something very few people can say, that’s what made him be at peace with himself when it happened. So don’t you dare take that away from him by telling yourself you were to blame.”

There are a couple tears that have spilled from Rick’s eyes and have run down his cheeks, but neither of them brings it up. Siddiq feels chastised and speechless, but most of all, he feels ashamed. He’s unable to look away from Rick’s eyes, though, and so he doesn’t miss the way his hardened eyes journey back to the softer, calm expression he’s so used to seeing on the man’s eyes. Rick sighs and rubs at the back of his neck.

“I hope that didn’t sound too rough. What I’m trying to say, Siddiq, is that you’re not to blame, and if someone thinks that you are, that’s not me. I promise. Maybe he was trying to help you, but you wouldn’t have been out there needing help if I hadn’t shot at you, and he wouldn’t have been out there looking for you if we had chosen to let him come with us to the Sanctuary, or if the people in Alexandria had kept an eye on him. You know what I’m saying, right? You don’t need to let any of this stop you.”

Siddiq is speechless for a few moments. His throat feels far too tight. “Thank you, Rick.”

“You don’t have to thank me. You just have to promise me you will stop coming down here instead of talking to me or whoever you need to talk to. You’re one of us now, alright?”

Rick smiles, not too wide, but definitely bright. With that, whatever heaviness is lift. Siddiq won’t forget what Rick’s said, but right now, he’s able to feel just the light and reassuring part of it. Processing and accepting what he’s said about Carl will be for later. He smiles back, hoping it conveys his gratefulness on a deeper level than words can.

Then Rick does something. He comes closer, he lets his forehead rest on Siddiq’s, and he closes his eyes, smile still faintly remaining on his lips. Siddiq startles, feels every cell burn up, but he hesitates only a few moments before leaning back on Rick, and his hand goes to Rick’s nape the way Rick’s rest on his. He feels the short, bristly hair, allows his fingers to run along just an inch.

He’s seen Rick do it before with other people. It’s a gesture of comfort, of closeness, of trust. Of family. He knows what it means, that Rick wants him to know there is no grudge at all between the two of them. He knows it, and he appreciates it more than words can say.

In that moment - he couldn’t deny it if he tried with all his might - Siddiq can’t help wondering what it would feel like, were Rick to decide to close the gap between them and let their lips meet.

He doesn’t. The smile he gets when he pulls away is just as good, though.

Rick gets to his feet, smiles down at him one more time, and nods. “Come up whenever you’re ready. We’re ready for you” he says before disappearing the way he came.

Siddiq waits a minute. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the last one before he allows himself to take a breath just as deep and just as soothing, this time with the fresh smell of grass on his nose and the hope-filling sound of a rising community in his ear.


End file.
